matt sturniolo x reader | fluff | based off this request
You'd been to the Sturniolo house enough times that you knew the doorbell made a slightly different sound than the normal ones. lower, a little longer. And you knew Nick usually took exactly forty-five seconds to answer it because he was always on the other side of the house doing something.
So when the door swung open after maybe ten seconds, you were already mid-text and completely unprepared.
The guy standing in the doorway was definitely not Nick.
He was taller than you'd expected, dark hoodie, hair slightly messy in a way that looked accidental but wasn't, and he was looking at you with this expression you couldn't quite place, somewhere between surprised and something you couldn't determine.
"Hi." You lowered your phone. "You're not Nick."
"No." The corner of his mouth pulled up. "I'm Matt."
You knew that, actually, Nick had mentioned his brothers approximately a thousand times. You'd just never met them in person, which felt suddenly like a significant oversight.
"I know who you are," he said. "Nick talks about you."
You blinked. "Uhh... good things?? I hope? "
"Mostly." His eyes were doing something you couldn't quite read: warm, a little amused, moving over your face like he was taking inventory. "He said you were funny."
"Mostly funny? Or actually funny?"
"Guess I'll find out." He stepped back, pulling the door open wider. "You can come in. He's somewhere, probably his room."
You stepped inside, and he closed the door behind you, and for a few seconds, you just stood in the entryway with nowhere in particular to be.
"Do you always answer the door?"
"Only when I'm closest to it."
"I try." He leaned against the wall, arms crossing loosely, and there was something about the way he held himself that made your brain go slightly offline. "Nick said you were coming over."
"Is that why you answered the door?"
Something flickered across his face. "I was just closest."
You smiled despite yourself. "Sure."
He opened his mouth to say something. You genuinely wanted to know what, and then footsteps came thundering down the hallway, and Nick appeared, hair chaotic, socks sliding on the hardwood.
"You're here!" He pointed at you like you'd done something impressive by showing up. "I literally just texted you."
"I'm standing right here, Nick."
"I know, I just—" He grabbed your wrist and started pulling you toward the hallway, then stopped, looking between you and Matt. "Were you two—"
"She rang the doorbell," Matt said. "I answered it."
"Right." Nick looked at Matt for half a second too long. "Cool. Come on, I have to show you something."
You let yourself get pulled away, glancing back once. Matt was still leaning against the wall. Still watching.
You turned back around before you could do something stupid like smile about it.
The something Nick had to show you turned out to be a seventeen-minute video essay about a topic you'd never heard of, which you sat through genuinely because Nick's enthusiasm was infectious and also because you were a good friend.
By the time it was over you were hungry, which you announced, and Nick pointed toward the kitchen.
The kitchen was at the other end of the house.
You navigated there alone, opened the fridge, stared into it for a while the way you do when you're not sure what you want but you're hoping something will volunteer itself.
"There's leftover pasta on the second shelf."
You startled, hand flying to your chest. Matt was sitting at the kitchen island with a sketchbook open in front of him, pen in hand, like he'd been there the whole time.
"You have to stop doing that," you said.
"Popping up out of nowhere."
He considered that. "That's hard to avoid. I live here."
"Fair point." You found the pasta, grabbed a fork, and leaned against the counter. He went back to his sketchbook. You watched him for a second without meaning to. The way his pen moved, focused and easy, was hard not to watch. "What are you drawing?"
"The page is right there."
"It's thinking," he said, and glanced up. "What?"
"Nothing." You looked down at your pasta. "I didn't say anything."
"I have a face, yes. It came with the rest of me."
His laugh was quiet, a little surprised, like it had gotten out before he caught it. You felt unreasonably pleased about that.
"Nick said you were funny," he said again.
"I'm starting to think mostly funny was an understatement."
You pointed your fork at him. "Don't tell him that. His head's already a problem."
"It really is." He set his pen down, turning slightly on the stool to face you more fully, and the kitchen felt smaller than it had thirty seconds ago. "How long have you known him?"
"Since we were like fifteen. We had the same terrible taste in music and it bonded us."
"The kind you grow out of."
"I know." You smiled. He shook his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up again, and you were starting to catalogue that expression. The almost-smile, the one that meant you'd said something he hadn't expected.
You were also starting to notice you were trying to make it happen, which was information you weren't sure what to do with.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
He thought about it. "Someone louder, maybe. Nick described you in a very big way."
"I can be loud. I'm just comfortable."
"Yeah," he said, quieter. "I can tell."
You weren't entirely sure what to do with that either.
The fridge hummed. From somewhere down the hall, Nick's voice floated out, talking to himself or on the phone, impossible to tell.
"I should probably—" you started.
"Yeah," he said, like he'd been expecting it.
You pushed off the counter. Made it about three steps toward the door.
"Hey." His voice low. You turned. He had his pen in his hand again, eyes on the sketchbook, but there was something deliberate about the way he wasn't looking at you. "If Nick makes you watch another video essay, you're allowed to just leave."
You laughed, genuine and quiet. "Noted."
"I'll be here," he said. Still not looking up. "If you need somewhere to be instead."
You stood in the doorway for just a beat longer than necessary.
"Maybe I'll take you up on that," you said.
He looked up then. That almost-smile again, except this time it was a little more than almost.
You turned before he could see yours.
You did go back, obviously.
Forty minutes later, under the very thin pretense of needing more water, you slid back onto the kitchen island stool and said "okay, explain what you're drawing" and he did, then somehow an hour passed, and then Nick found you both and made a face you'd be thinking about for days, and it was late and you had to actually sleep because that was supposedly why you'd come over.
Matt walked you to the hallway, unnecessary given that you knew where the hallway was.
"I'll see you around," you said.
"Yeah," he said. "You will."
You went to sleep that night on Nick's couch, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the way he'd said you would... not maybe or probably, just certain, like it was already decided.
Down the hall, Matt lay awake doing the same thing, sketchbook open beside him, the page that had been empty all evening finally not.
He'd drawn a girl leaning against a kitchen counter, fork in hand, laughing at something. He'd gotten it right on the first try.
wrong door. right person. Nick was going to be so annoying about this.
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